


I love only that which they defend

by LePetitMonstre



Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Sex, Consentacles, Doom Marine | Doom Slayer | Doomguy uses Sign Language, Eggpreg, Elements of Mpreg, FTM Doom Slayer, Flashbacks, Other, Oviposition, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Doom Slayer, Trans Doomguy, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LePetitMonstre/pseuds/LePetitMonstre
Summary: Vega desires to touch. To explore a human body—theSlayer'sbody—with the pretext of enjoyment instead of autopsy. And once all the armor is gone and the show is over, he intends to do just that. He is enchanted by the concept of intimacy; with this very human idea of being loved for one's vulnerability, not merely their usefulness.
Relationships: Doom Slayer | Doomguy/VEGA
Comments: 5
Kudos: 80





	I love only that which they defend

**Author's Note:**

> you can read my headcanons regarding makyr reproduction here: archiveofourown.org/works/26823529  
> ^This essay was was originally written to establish my world-building while working on this fic, but if you don't want to read it I think there's enough recap within the fic to make everything clear.

He presses his tongue in between Vega's stiff lip plates. Running just the tip carefully along the tiny points of his incisors. The celestial being squirms in the Slayer's lap. 

After a year of separation, there was nothing to keep them apart any longer. No demon, no Dark Lord, nor seraph to oppose. All responsibilities and barriers had fallen to the Slayer's righteous rage. Leaving only the two of them alone in a quiet fortress to make use of as they pleased. 

With Urdak now a dead realm, The Father had no purpose. What use is a leader if there is nothing to lead? A king with no kingdom is no king at all. Thus, Vega came back to the one place—or rather, person—who made him feel at home. Wearing the first body he was born into before recorded time began. An alien cephalopod of pure, white armor and red tentacles; a makyr. 

Despite having never been together this way before, the pair each felt like life had returned to some normalcy. Even as the names and faces changed the core longings remained the same. The war was over. The Slayer had at last sated his vengeance. In the fallout of the great deeds that will define their memory for eternity... they only yearn for one another. 

The Slayer's helmet had been removed when they started, and now his hands were drifting to the preator suit's belt– 

Until Vega stops him. 

The Slayer sighs and breaks the kiss if only so Vega can better see his hands. A fresh ache fills them both at the loss of contact. 'What's wrong?' 

"If you are removing your belt, I assume you want to have intercourse. But I do not think that is wise." 

'Why?' The Slayer signed. 

"Our reproductive systems did not evolve to be compatible. My hectocotylus is much larger than any primate genitalia. And... I am due to spawn. Moreover, I know how you feel about your reproductive status. I would not want to cause you physical or emotional harm by laying eggs inside you." 

The Slayer shrugged. 'I'm willing to try anything once.' 

"You would allow it?" 

'Yes. Vega, I've spent a thousand years in hell, engaged in Night Sentinel orgies, and I know you've seen my internet history. I'm not scared of you or your alien dick.' 

"That is true, although I'm not sure why your data search patterns are relevant. You are a force of divine retribution. I need not have doubted you. Regardless, your consent is important to me." 

'If I don't like something, I'll stop you.' 

"I can ask for nothing more." 

The Slayer responds by leaning in for another kiss. Guiding Vega backward in the process, until his back is pressed into the mattress with the Slayer straddling his waist. 

The Slayer makes a show of removing the upper half of his armor. Piece by piece being unbuckled at the seams and stripped away, revealing the soft topography of human muscle crisscrossed by the pale lines of countless scars. 

Vega desires to touch. To explore a human body—the _Slayer's_ body—with the pretext of enjoyment instead of autopsy. And once all the armor is gone and the show is over, he intends to do just that. He is enchanted by the concept of intimacy; with this very human idea of being loved for one's vulnerability, not merely their usefulness. 

But the Slayer catches Vega's hands in his own. Before releasing them to speak. 'One question.' 

"Of course. Anything at all." 

'You said spawn.' The Slayer signs the word 'spawn' by its individual letters. 'You mean like fish eggs? Will these eggs hatch?' 

"I... do not know. I do not think so. Our bodies sleep from birth to adulthood while under the care of drones assigned to the task. When we are mature, we wake and begin our functional life. It has been so long since we have functioned any other way... I have no memory of it. I suspect we can no longer reach maturity without the proper life support equipment. I assumed my eggs would be disposed of as biowaste." 

'If you're okay with that.' 

"I am," Vega chimes. Unbothered. "It is the most practical option." 

The Slayer tries to analyze Vega's mannerisms and voice for any sign he is conceding a point he didn't want to concede. But there is none the Slayer can detect. Vega has always been motivated by logic, and the Slayer suspects this was the case well before his consciousness was converted into an AI. The Slayer nods, and he allows Vega to touch him. 

Warm metal hands start at the Slayer's shoulder blades and slide down his back, smoothing over the subtle indent or rise of every old wound. 

This time Vega makes the first move on the Slayer's belt, and together the two make the necessary movements to remove the remaining preator suit from the Slayer's legs as well. 

Next comes the skirt of Vega's armor. Unlatched and unhooked from his torso plate to allow his lower limbs full mobility. 

Soft, human lips are pressed against Vega's mouth once more. The mass of tendrils squirming against the Slayer's thighs, in constant subtle motion. Their surfaces are smooth and dry much the hide of a snake without the texture of scales. 

Vega's hands exploring more skin, before pulling down the Slayer's briefs and groping at his backside, albeit more for the Slayer's gratification than his own. As hoped the Slayer moans into the kiss, grinding his hips into the base of Vega's tendrils. Their surfaces undulate between the Slayer's legs, pressing against his slit. 

He gasps into Vega's mouth. Fingers digging at the armor on Vega's. They proceed this way for a while; the Slayer finding a steady pace, rocking down into the smooth, flowing surface of a thick tendril. Exploring Vega's neck and skull with his hands. All while Vega presses against his firm ass to keep the Slayer's hips moving. A small blot of slick on the tendril grows with each movement. The Slayer's little cock becoming flushed with blood and tender to the friction. 

When the Slayer retreats to catch his breath Vega holds his body close and reverses their positions; the Slayer now resting on his back with Vega hovering above him. 

"Are you ready, Slayer?" 

'I want you inside me.' 

Putting his weight on his hands, Vega backs up slightly. Giving the Slayer a decent view of that mass of tendrils moving and parting. A smaller and shorter member of the group slips between the rest. Roughly as thick as the Slayer's wrist and a foot longer than his arm. Not as intimidating as the Slayer expected—it's the girth that matters. He was imagining a bludgeon more like a baron's cock, but this is long and prehensile just like the rest of its more innocent siblings. 

Vega leans in and presses their foreheads together. Their lips join, lackadaisical; all attention centered between the Slayer's thighs. 

Vega's hectocotylus sneaks along the Slayer's inner thigh towards its destination, and Vega's kisses turn chaste. The Slayer draws in a sharp breath as the tendril brushes against his enlarged clit while searching for its entry point. Before moving down and nosing at his labia, flesh plump with blood and wet with quim unfurling as it moved towards the entrance. The blunt tip of the hectocotylus teases at the ring of muscle nestled within the Slayer's folds. 

He tightens his grip on Vega's shoulders, and Vega nuzzles at his cheek in return. Blunt nails digging into Vega's armor as the tendril makes slow and careful work of penetration. It pushes into the Slayer's cunt, filling it entirely. Vega's hands fisting in the mattress cover as slick heat engulfs the touch-sensitive organ. 

"Good?" Vega sighs. 

The Slayer nods, and Vega thinks he looks lovely with a full blush and skin dewey from sweat. 

A muscle flexes and the tendril pulls back... before filling the Slayer again. He throws his head back with a gasp. Desiring to make the moment last and observe his human lover in bliss, Vega sets a gentle pace of push and pull, relishing the way his tendril feels sucked back inside as if he could go deeper every time. 

Vega doesn't have the presence of mind to appreciate the very human shape of their bodies rocking into each other, but the Slayer knows it well. One hand settling on the nape of Vega's neck, and the other holding them together at the waist. 

Novel, however, is the sinuous, snake-like wriggling of what's inside him. 

The Slayer's breath hitches as the tip pokes at his cervix, "oh god, Vega..." 

Vega pulls his head back immediately. "Are you alright, Slayer? I can stop! We can stop–" What Vega lacked in expressive facial features he made up for in his voice; a clear pitch of worry lacing his words. 

'Vega', he signs out each letter of his name with surprising clarity. 'I will not break. You can fuck me harder." 

Memories of the Night Sentinels flickered in his mind. What it was like to feel loved and appreciated for something other than killing. To be cared for, and to provide care. Vega's tendrils weaving around his thighs and one another. Vega's hands on his chest. 

As requested, Vega picks up the pace. Plunging in deep, bumping against the Slayer's cervix again and again. Tendril writhing inside him and pressing against every sweet spot. Each thrust thumping harder against his cervix with a small amount of pain. Nothing he can't stand. Nothing that doesn't make his eyes want to roll back in his skull with pleasure. 

Everything is good and sweet and warm between them for a few long moments. Clinging to each other, undulating on the mattress together like a single entity both alluring and obscene. 

"Slayer, I am close-" 

"Do it," The Slayer whispers. 

The muscle of the tendril goes rigid, the tip of the appendage embedding itself snugly into the minute opening of his cervix like a screw into a bolt. There's a sensation of wrongness to the burning pain but it does feel good. God, it feels so good and orgasm catches the Slayer by surprise. All his muscle going taut until it hurts but the molten pleasure washing over him taking precedent. Nuzzling into Vega's armored face with a rasping groan. 

The way his cunt clenches down on the intrusion is equally wonderful for Vega. Previously hidden against Vega's back, wings unfurl and fill the once empty atmosphere of the room with yellow light. 

Old memories flash through the Slayer's mind of a strange realm and an imperialist khan. He's losing the moment, losing his grip on the present, as old traumas surface. Vega is in rapture above him but this lover he knows suddenly feels like he's slipping away. 

The Slayer grabs hold of Vega's face and pulls him close. Whispering Vega's name over and over to remind himself where he is and who he's with. Kissing Vega's face over and over. 

"You are... so loving, Slayer. My dear. My darling." That sweet voice, chiming and clear, grounds the Slayer. 

"I love you, Vega," the Slayer whispers. What remains of his voice is hoarse and guttural, but his arms are full and the words slip out on instinct. 

"Oh Slayer. I love you too." 

The pace of the hectocotylus's contractions increase as steamy breaths leave Vega's mouth as he grunts and whimpers. The tendril pulsing inside the Slayer with a heartbeat slower than his own. He shivers as his tender cunt is stretched to what feels like is its limit. He wants to close his thighs around the intrusion to make it stop but he doesn't. Trying to relax further into Vega, but his thighs still quake and he wraps one leg over Vega's 'hip'. 

He can feel the contractions, the rhythmic squeezing of muscle that ushers the line of eggs forward. If he concentrates, which he finds very challenging, he thinks he can feel the extra mass of the first one, then the next, as they enter the ring of muscle to the opening of his cunt, stretching him further in amounts almost too small to measure. 

A small stretching in the Slayer's cervix burns slightly... then there's something free-floating inside him. Somehow he knows it is small, gelatinous, and firm—but maybe that's his assumptions taking precedent over real evidence. 

In his short hair, he can feel the currents of Vega's heated pants. Plates of pectoral armor vibrate as that sweet voice deepens into a groan of pleasure. The place that ought to be his pelvis twitching with the effort of progressing the spawn from his abdomen to the hectocotylus. 

The Slayer's cunt is stuffed full and oversensitive. Sensations competing and rebuilding his excitement. The steady procession of little eggs a unique mixture of receiving an invasive massage as the tendril ripples, a dull sting of his penetrated cervix being stretched, and the oddness of every viscous egg being released into his uterus. 

Each one coming faster as Vega whimpers and grunts... Then he goes rigid, what feels like ten or more eggs spurting forth at once. "Ohh, fuck!" 

A shudder goes up Vega's spine and he collapses atop the Slayer. 

After a moment the tendril pulls out. Generous strands of the Slayer's quim following it. 

After Vega dismounts, the pair rest side by side for a long moment. Savoring the warmth of the afterglow. The Slayer can feel the new passengers in his abdomen, accompanied by the same feeling of fullness which he associates with the comatose comfort of eating a large meal. 

The Slayer signs, his hands clumsy and wrists overwrought, but he has a lazy smile all the same. "I didn't think you knew the word 'fuck'." 

Vega rubs his palms over his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment and/or kudos. It makes an author's life brighter to hear from readers. Let me know if you spot any mistakes. Constructive criticism is always welcome.


End file.
